Go by Your Own Taste – A Comedy of Great Appetite
by JunoMagic
Summary: Portus Envy prompt: SS and HG meet in a foreign country, doing very unlikely jobs. Hermione is working as a restaurant critic in France. Stranded in the middle of nowhere she's in for one hell of a surprise. On hiatus until further notice.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of **Joanne K. Rowling**. Any characters, settings, places from the Harry Potter books and movies used in this work are the property of Joanne K. Rowling, and Warner Brothers, or the movie **"Ratatouille"** and its owners. Original characters, settings and concepts belong to the author of this work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the private enjoyment of readers at FanFictionNet, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.

All characters, places and events in this story are either the products of the relevant author's imagination or they are used entirely fictiously.

**oooOooo**

This was written in response to the following prompts at the LiveJournal community Portus Envy:

**dominiondreams** wanted:

_Severus and Hermione meet up both doing the most unlikely job you can imagine._

**anijade** requested:

_S/HG meeting up in a foreign country but of fluff_

And **sc010f** asked for:

_Sev Herms and a reunion (any kind)_

Many thanks to **duniazade** for expert advise on French cuisine.

* * *

**oooOooo**

**Choosing the Restaurant**

Hermione caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glossy black finish of her _Citroën Déesse Décapotable. _

"This is me," she thought, awkwardly balancing a huge stack of cookbooks on one arm, while attempting to open the boot with her free hand.

"Great." All that was visible in the shiny surface of her car was a warped vision of books topped with a mop of bushy hair. Nothing appeared to have changed since the day near the end of her Sixth Year, when she'd scrutinised a very similar tableau in the window of the library at Hogwarts and found herself wanting.

"I think it's apparent I need to rethink my life a little bit," she muttered. With a glance she ascertained that no Muggles were looking her way. Then she pushed the boot open and deposited her books inside, right at the top of the stairs. She couldn't be arsed to put them away on her shelves properly right now. Another quick look around, and she slammed the boot shut again.

"What's my problem?" she grumbled, as she circled her car and slumped in the driver's seat. She switched on the ignition. Her car roared to life with the growl of rudely interrupted nap. "Oh, come on, _Bumblebee," _she wheedled. "Be a dear and wake up. I promise I'll feed you _essence super_ at the first possible opportunity."

Her car might have started out as a fancy old-timer and penis prosthesis for rich old men. But by now it was so chock-full of magic that it was near – _No, scratch that,_ Hermione thought – that it _was _sentient.

The bad thing about that was – the car had developed a nasty temper more suited to a toddler in his terrible twos. The good thing about it was, Hermione contemplated, after having placated her volatile vehicle with a tank-full of the best _essence super_ this side of the Channel (or at least that was what she'd told the car), that you could really relax behind the wheel. If the car was in a good mood. And thanks to her bribery, Bumblebee was in a very good mood indeed.

Therefore Hermione leant back in her seat, switched on the radio, gripped the steering wheel lightly in a perfect ten o'clock/two o'clock position … and closed her eyes.

Her musings quickly returned to her original train of thought. "Let's see. So what's my problem? I mean, apart from Harry having turned into a pompous prat who thinks the sun shines out of Shacklebolt's arse, and Ron being happily engaged to his brother's shop … Well, he _would_ be, if that was at all feasible. _Right._ So, first of all, I'm an outcast Gryffindor among millions of positively Slytherin Muggles, which means life is hard. More's the pity. And second, I have a highly developed sense of justice. Which is a veritable tragedy."

She started drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. Bumblebee picked up on her growing agitation and revved up the engine with a resounding roar.

Right after the war, with the conviction of the righteous (or should that be _'self-righteous'?_) she had started a _splendid_ career at the Ministry of Magic as assistant secretary in the Department for Magical Law Enforcement. That had lasted exactly six months, two weeks, five days, nine hours and thirty-seven minutes. Give or take a few seconds. At that precise moment she had realised that her very first project – the posthumous exoneration of Severus Snape – would never happen. _And_ that she'd only been appointed chairwoman of the committee for house-elf relations because no self-respecting house-elf would talk to her and so she wouldn't be underfoot and trying to interfere when heroes of the war like Harry Potter or Percy Weasley or Draco Malfoy made the _important _decisions on the junior level of the ministry's hierarchy.

Fed up with the wizarding world of Britain, she'd transferred to Beauxbatons Academy and started her Potions apprenticeship.

That attempt at finding gainful magical employment had lasted slightly longer (nine months, one week, seventeen hours and twenty-six minutes, give or take a few seconds) and ended with her throwing a scroll into the fire that listed on exactly seven feet and eleven inches, or two metres, forty-one centimetres and three millimetres, at least eighty different reasons why the Beauxbatons Potions Mistress was nothing but a frumpy fraud who didn't deserve to kiss the boots of one Severus Snape.

Unfortunately that incident had made her come to her senses. Albeit belatedly. Hermione had realised that possibly the establishment was not (or at least not _exclusively_) to blame for her problems. Indeed, she'd eventually come to the conclusion that her initial interpretation of why she was having all those problems was probably not the fault of the relevant persons or institutions at all.

Upon sober reflection, Hermione had determined that _she_ was the problem.

And not the other way around.

Since she appeared to be unable to change the wizarding world, she turned things around. That way she arrived quickly at an astonishingly simple and surprisingly effective solution: Instead of trying to remove the problems she perceived in the wizarding world and among its inhabitants, she removed _herself_ from the wizarding world and its inhabitants.

In other words, she'd gone Muggle.

She hadn't broken her wands or foresworn magic or any such non-sense. Quite the opposite. Even living in the Muggle world, she used magic daily; though she avoided using it _on _Muggles, since she didn't want to get into unnecessary (and hugely overrated) trouble with the local authorities. But apart from that, she used it all the time: on herself (cope with her hair without magic? unthinkable), on her car (dear Bumblebee was the only male in her life, and had been for a couple of really good years now) and most important, on the litter-box of her cat.

Now and again she still marvelled at how easy it was to live like that – as a magical vagabond in a Muggle world.

Setting out, the first thing she'd done had been to invest the stipend paid to her by the British Ministry of Magic because she was A Heroine Of The War and A Third Of The Golden Trio into a car. Not just any old car, either; but a black _Citroën Déesse Décapotable. _And a divine car it was. Especially after she'd enlarged the boot into a comfortable studio apartment with a whirlpool, a library and an open fireplace. She sighed. There might be no one else left for her to love, but at least Hermione could love her car.

As her next step, she'd put the two lessons she'd learnt from the Beauxbatons Potions Mistress to good use and found herself a Muggle job.

_"You are what you eat."_

And: _"The work of a critic is easy."_

She'd be damned if she'd go back to the fatty, dull cuisine of Hogwarts and the likes of Molly Weasley, spending her days in a race to close the gap between her width and her height.

Also, if the wizarding world put no value into her ideals or her hard work, she'd rather enjoy ripping apart the products of other hands and other lives, than to be ripped apart herself.

In other words: she really liked her job as restaurant critic for the (in-)famous _Guide Rouge Michelin._

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N:**

Copious quotes from the movie "Ratatouille" in the text.

_Citroën Déesse Décapotable _is a really fancy car. A friend of mine told me that the French president used to have a _Citroën DS._

Bumblebee belongs to me.

And the Guide Rouge Michelin is the most famous guide for eating out and getting drunk in France. They are the guys that award the stars to famous restaurants.

Please feel free to leave a comment! I'm always interested what made you smile, frown, laugh or cry, wonder or wince ... and I don't mind if you let me know which typo slipped through my proofreading.


	2. Chapter 2

**Setting the Table **

Hermione opened her eyes, just to check where she was.

Oh, great. They had just passed Orleans. Bumblebee was really in a splendid mood today, speeding away like the Knight Bus on crack, but with much more style. She was on her way to Colliure, an artsy town at the Mediterranean Ocean, not too far away from the Spanish border. She was supposed to critique an extravagant seafood restaurant there. And if that wasn't casting pearls before the swine, she didn't know what was. Collioure might have been chic and romantic when her parents were young. Nowadays cheap and ratty were adjectives that she'd call the more suitable descriptives. And why the _Enrichi _of the coast and the package-tourists needed a really good restaurant, when they wouldn't know what a taste bud was if it bit them in the arse, escaped her as well. Of course that was not what she was being paid for. Which was just as well, because she really needed at least some money.

If only to pay for food and petrol.

Living in her car the way she did, she'd go as far as to call her life-style _'financially optimised'. _With no rent to pay, she didn't need much money. Additionally, she'd figured out that it was either eighty quid for a nice pair of jeans that _still _didn't fit perfectly or four quid for a small towel plus an afternoon of spell-work plus a headache for nice pair of jeans that _did_ fit perfectly. Thus, with a roof over her head and transfigured towels snugly wrapped around her body, petrol actually figured as the largest factor in her cash budget.

Not that she hadn't tried to get rid of that factor as well.

Of course, Hermione mused, she'd probably gone about that problem the wrong way. Her experiment to convince Bumblebee to eat something that wasn't _essence super_ had backfired badly. But seriously, if that had worked … It had been worth a try. Though, on the other hand … Hermione shuddered. Who knew what his tastes would have turned to? DADA manuals? Playwitch? Or worse: _Playboy? _

For – living up to her bookworm nature – that was what she had tried to feed to her car: books.

This promising experiment had certainly started off with BANG, when she poked the book she hated above all others into Bumblebee's tank. In retrospect, she contemplated that she likely should have tried a newspaper first, or other light reading. Maybe the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Or even _'Hogwarts, A History'_ .

All of those options might have been better than _'Beadle the Bard'._

At least she had managed to get rid of it that way.

However, the experiment had been less than successful. Bumblebee still swigged essence super like a drunkard swilled firewhisky.

And Hermione had discovered just how much magic you can pour into a car without unforeseen effects. In this particular case the unforeseen effect was that Bumblebee had crossed the threshold from a heap of magicked metal to sentient junk. Sentient junk on wheels with delusions of grandeur, a sense of humour as wacky as Albus Dumbledore's had ever been, and snarls and smirks no less magnificent than those of Severus Snape himself.

_Also,_ Hermione grumbled (but only in her mind – she really wasn't in the mood for yet another argument with her car), _we mustn't forget his hobbies._

Her car's favourite pastimes included mollycoddling (Molly Weasley could take lessons from Bumblebee), matchmaking (which didn't work any better with wizards than with Muggles – you try and explain why your car just bumped into you so you ended up in someone's arms, or on your arse, depending on Bumblebee's verdict on the man in question) and acting as the voice of reason, her better nature, her conscience or her superego as the mood struck him … or just plainly annoying the hell out of her.

Still, she loved her car.

_But_ – and here her thoughts finally returned to the decision that had begun to ripen in her mind when she set out on this journey – sometimes a car simply _wasn't_ enough.

There was only so much a car could do for a person.

Especially a car as prim and proper about how the vibes of its engine were applied as Bumblebee. For the first time in her life, Hermione came to consider the possibilities of a broomstick.

A second later, she shuddered and shook herself. _"Urgh! That's gross."_

Of course that idea would explain some strange observations involving Quidditch teams during her years at Hogwarts rather neatly. "Thank God I never touched a broom after I finished lessons with Madame Hooch," Hermione muttered and shuddered once more.

_"Right._ I said I need to rethink my life, and I meant that. Yes, I think I do. After living for years with just books, a cat and a car for company, do you know what I'm craving? A little ... _perspective._ That's it. I'd like some fresh, clear, well-seasoned perspective. No, really."

She imagined just which perspective she'd like to enjoy and swallowed dryly.

"What I need, sweet Bumblebee, is a _man._ Preferably someone who's neither dead nor a prat."

Bumblebee purred encouragingly and smoothly increased his speed. Hermione sighed happily, and decided that she wouldn't tell him that what she was thinking of did not include marriage, two children and a tidy front yard. No, not at all. She was thinking of frolicking, fucking, and having a damn good time. But since she really didn't need a sulking car when she was still half a country away from Collioure, she decided to keep quiet about that. And honest, who besides her car would blame her for such thoughts? She wasn't at all certain if she hadn't already atrophied to the state of dried-up old spinster as it was.

Hermione sighed deeply. At least a dried-up old spinster with a really cool car, she comforted herself.

_And Colliure …_ hadn't she read in one of the guides that the Foreign Legion had a training area nearby? Suddenly images of muscular men hanging from cliff rocks and flashing her dazzling smiles while they lifted toned, tanned bodies back up into safety with their little fingers flashed through her mind.

Hermione closed her mouth before she could start drooling, and glanced perfunctorily into the rear-view mirror.

_"Bloody hell, fucking shit!"_ she snarled, as she glimpsed two specks hurtling closer in the bright blue summer sky behind her.

But she knew from experience that no matter how fast Bumblebee was, the owls would be faster, defying every law of nature on the way, and not sparing a feather over whether this was at all possible or not.

Then Bumblebee noticed the owls, too, and promptly slowed down. As an old-timer, Bumblebee was big on things like proper behaviour, propriety and politeness. Also, he'd taken a shine on Roswitha, Harry's new white owl. A magical car in love with a wizarding owl. She grimaced. "Careful there, Hermione," she said to herself. "Such thoughts are dangerous. They can permanently damage your brain."

Aloud she muttered: "Bums, _please. _I am really not interested in the newest strategy of how the prat of all prats thinks he can lure me back to Britain and into the clutches of the Weasley clan. Also, please finally take note of the fact that Ron hasn't written to me in four years. If he's pining away for me, dreaming of marriage to me and only to me, wouldn't you think he'd write occasionally? While I hesitate to call his own scribbling writing, he is quite able to use a Dictaquill, you know." She shook her head. "For the life of me I cannot imagine why Harry still thinks I should marry him."

But Bumblebee wasn't listening. Instead, no matter how forcefully she stepped on the accelerator, the car slowed down, signalled, and left the _autoroute_ for the nearest _aire_. Great view of the Loire river, a sign promised. Another sign boasted the outlines of several _chateaux_ that could be visited in the area.

Bumblebee flicked the door of the driver's seat open.

For a moment Hermione considered remaining where she was and simply refusing to take the hint or to accept the owl post. She absolutely hated it when Bumblebee was trying to micro-manage her life. Only knowledge she had gained from painful experience (that no amount of magic got all the stains of owl crap out of the beautiful upholstery of her dear Bumblebee), finally made her climb out of the car and stretch her stiff arms and legs.

One look around assured her that hers was the only car in the parking space right now. Still, better safe than sorry. Deftly, she cast a few "Do-not-notice-me", "Look-the-other-way", "Fuck-I-think-I-forgot-to-switch-off-the-iron-the-hearth-the-washing-machine-the-coffee-maker-and-did-I-lock-in-my-mother-in-law" Charms. Then she leant against the warm flanks of her car, and waited.

Sure enough, five minutes later the white speck solidified into a beautiful owl. It dropped a parchment into her arms, circled three times overhead and then settled down on a fence post nearby. Roswitha smoothed her feathers and fluttered her lashes at Bumblebee. The car's radio switched to chansons.

"I don't want to see that," Hermione muttered. "I don't want to _think_ of that."

To distract herself, she unrolled the parchment.

_Dearest Hermione …_

_… we miss you so much …_

_… great employment opportunity …_

_… for real, this time …_

_… besides, the anniversary …_

Fuck, Harry, did you miss the fact that I'm supposed the cleverest witch of my age? I don't need to brush Veritaserum over this pap to know that you're lying through your teeth again!

_… you really must come home …_

_… we are worried about you …_

_… working for Muggles, that just doesn't sound like you at all …_

No shit, Harry. And what, pray-tell _does_ sound like me? Lying at your feet and pretending to be a bushy haired doormat that serves as a stepping stone for your career in the Wizengamot?

_… also, we really need your help …_

_Oh._ Of course. Wonderboy has come across a problem he can't solve, and what does he do? Call for little gullible Hermione to come running home to rescue him. Aren't there supposed to be experts for that sort of thing at the Ministry? Like … _Aurors,_ for example?

_And wait,_ Hermione thought. _Aren't you supposed to _be_ an Auror nowadays? How about you rescue yourself for a change?_

_… Ron really misses you. He would never say that, but you know that he has his pride, too. He's working so hard. I think he's really depressed from missing you so much. Please, Hermione. You must come home …_

Disgusted, Hermione was about to throw the parchment into the nearest rubbish bin, when Bumblebee growled.

"What?" Hermione asked. "Please tell me you don't believe that rubbish!"

A rumble.

"He's still my friend? Are you mental?"

A purr.

"Mental. Not metal."

A cloud of something at the rear-end. Hermione coughed.

"Besides, I have it on good authority that he's shacking up with Lavender Brown again."

_… and then there's something really mysterious come up. It actually ties in with the project you were so concerned with when you worked at the Ministry. We did a routine check-up on the Magical Registry Office. And either their Quill is broken, or the posthumous exoneration of Snape you were so keen on wouldn't be quite as posthumous as all of us assumed. Anyway, his name is not on the list of the wizards and witches deceased during the last 20 years. So you see, you really _have_ to come home …_

"What?" she shrieked. For a moment her heart thudded in her chest and her stomach somersaulted. Her eyes stung with sudden tears. Her fists balled around the parchment, crumpling it at the edges.

"You bastard," she whispered. "Harry. _You bastard._ You know that he wouldn't be registered anymore. Not after he'd gone back to Voldemort as a spy."

For a moment she wondered if she was still in that registry. She rather thought not. Not after leaving the wizarding world. A minor fact that _some_ people just didn't seem to be able to grasp. Not even after five years.

But what if she was wrong? What if the Quill didn't care for legal implications, and just recorded the facts of life. Birth. Death.

Suddenly she felt quite breathless.

But it _couldn't_ be! It couldn't possibly be.

He had died!

She'd tried to save him, and he'd _fucking_ bled to death on her _bleeding_ robe.

Bumblebee blinked at her.

"What?" she asked again. "You believe that, too?" She shook her head. "I should never ever have fed you fairy tales. Life doesn't work that way," she added bitterly.

The blinking stopped.

By now the other owl was close enough to recognise her colour. Hermione rubbed her eyes. The owl was … very, brightly, pink.

Hermione stared at the bird. "You do realise there will be hell to pay if a Muggle notices you, right?"

The owl ruffled her feathers at Hermione, turned around, crapped on Bumblebee's bonnet and took off again. Bumblebee roared.

Hermione smirked, ignored her car's fit of temper and proceeded to unroll the second missive. When she recognised Luna Lovegood's loopy handwriting, she frowned.

_Hello Hermione,_

_I bet you are surprised that I am writing to you._

No, why would I? I mean, we haven't seen each other or heard from each other in five years, why should I be surprised?

_I hope you are well. France is such a fascinating country. You must enjoy it very much. Especially since there are no Nargles in France. By the way, did you happen to come across Fargles? I'd be ever so thrilled if you were able to send me a specimen. _

Nargles? Fargles? _Fardles._ Luna would never change. Hermione rolled her eyes.

_I recently visited Lavender Brown. She's working at St. Mungo's now, you know? And I was really shocked to hear that you aren't well._

I am not well? Hermione frowned. Really? Since when?

_I hope you don't mind, and of course it was strictly confidential, and I shan't share what I know with anyone. But Lavender showed me your medical records. I never knew that you were suffering from long term effects from Bellatrix' Crucio. I am so sorry to hear that. I really haven't been as good a friend to you as I ought to have been._

Huh? Apart from a twinge in her scar when the weather was about to change, Hermione was not aware of any such effects.

_It must be quite terrible for you that you don't know what you are doing anymore. I mean, you of all people using Imperius on unsuspecting Muggles! Please, don't blame yourself. At least Lavender has assured me that Ron and Harry are on your case. Now that Harry has claimed guardianship over you, at least there won't be any nasty legal consequences if you do it again. And as soon as you are home in Britain, you can live with him and his family, and everything will be all right._

Hermione gaped at the letter. She was so taken aback that she wasn't even able to come up with appropriate colourful curses. Suspension marks blossomed in her brain, dropped and proceeded to rattle around like marbles in an empty tin.

What the FUCKING hell was going on here? Or rather, _there._

And when would they finally start giving her some credit? She was supposed to be the smartest witch of her age, Merlin's blustering bollocks. Using Imperius – which just _happened_ to be an Unforgivable and thus a crime that could be prosecuted across national borders, in every wizarding community of the world – was not exactly what _she_ would call _'smart'._

I used _'Suggestio',_ you idiots.

Which is sort of like a post-hypnotic command, which just happens to strengthen an idea or an inclination already extant in a person's mind. It is not _exactly_ Imperius.

A nasty little voice at the back of her mind whispered: _"But it's not exactly, completely _unlike_ Imperius either."_

She ignored the voice.

Also – she couldn't suppress a certain sense of accomplishment – I made up the damn spell _myself._ So I am most certain that there is no law in existence forbidding its use.

She ground her teeth.

Guardianship? Harry? Over her? Oh, the fucking do-gooder, just you wait until she – but no, of course, she _couldn't_ give him a piece of her mind on that matter, because as soon as she stepped foot on British soil, she'd be …

She couldn't prevent a small gagging noise from emerging from her throat.

… she'd have _Harry Potter_ as her legal guardian in the wizarding world.

_'Bloody fucking hell'_ didn't even begin to cover it.

And why was Luna _sodding_ Lovegood suddenly writing her letters practically warning her not to even think of coming back to Britain?

_Oh._

Luna Lovegood was warning her not to return to Britain.

Hermione blinked.

_Looney, old girl,_ she thought, _that's really quite decent of you._

Then she lowered her gaze to the last paragraph of the parchment.

_Lavender also had the most outrageous story. You know that I'm always on the look-out for news for the Quibbler. But really. We have to keep up a _certain _standard of quality. We can't just print anything. I don't know what Lav-Lav has been (scratched out: smoking) thinking. Apparently Harry and Ron are all of a sudden convinced that Severus Snape is not dead at all. Can you believe that? And just because the Quill in the Ministry of Magic failed to register his death. Really. It's plain to see that it's just a bad case of quill mites. Can you imagine that Lavender had the gall to ask me for 199,999 Galleons 13 Sickles and 17 Knuts if she gave me the details? Of course I refused._

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **Everything that you think you recognise from the movie "Ratatouille" is actually from the movie "Ratatouille".

No offence to inhabitants or fans of Collioure is intended. I do not share Hermione's opinion and I promise that Hermione's opinion is not her opinion either, but only forced on her by the plot of this story.

Fargles and Quill mites belong to me. Oh joy, I can haz my very own magical parasites.

_Please feel free to leave a comment! I'm always interested what made you smile, frown, laugh or cry, wonder or wince ... and I don't mind if you let me know which typo slipped through my proofreading._


	3. Chapter 3

**And Eating at it**

For a moment Hermione stood motionless next to her car. Her fingers curled so tightly around the two scrolls that the parchment crinkled and cracked.

"At least Luna seems to have learnt a lesson," Hermione muttered. Five years ago, she would have expected Luna to promptly add the search for a dead man to her list of lunatic obsessions, right along with Nargles, Blibbering Humdingers and Crumple-horned Snorkacks. Idly, Hermione wondered if Luna alphabetised her lists. She herself preferred arranging the items on her lists according to priority.

Suddenly Hermione's throat constricted at the bitter twist of pain as she tried to imagine where Snape would rank among Luna's priorities. If finding Fargles and Nargles would be more important to the strange genius of the young Ravenclaw than…

Hermione shook herself. "Stop that, you foolish—Just _fwooping, fucking_ stop that, Hermione," she growled at herself. With a quick flick of her wand, she vanished the parchments and slid back on the driver's seat.

_"Vamos muchachos,_ Bums. We've got miles to go, things to do. Meals to taste. Kitchens to inspect. Chefs to torture."

Luscious legionnaires to relish. _Hopefully._ Filled with determination, Hermione steered her imagination once more to the idea of tanned, fit, muscular bodies. When she noticed that her fantasy men sprouted straggly black hair, that they eyes blazed black and that their build was rather on the scrawny side, she wanted to smack her head against the steering wheel.

"Bums," she ordered once more, "let's get roarin'."

She flicked on the radio.

But the car didn't move. And the radio produced nothing but static noises.

Hermione slumped back in her seat and closed her eyes. Bums in a snit. And the day had started out so nice.

"I'm not going back, Bums. Didn't you get what that letter said? Harry wants to get me committed! They want to lock me up and throw away the key. The story about the quill and Snape is just another trick. Nothing but a trick. Or Luna is right and the quill is _kaputt."_ She slapped the steering wheel with her flat palm. "And even if it's not and Luna's wrong …"

Which would be quite poetic, really, if Luna turned out to be wrong not only about beings that didn't exist, but as well as about Potions master that did exist …

"Even if he's still alive somewhere, that doesn't change _anything,"_ Hermione insisted. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyebrows. "If he were, I'd wish him a long life wherever he is. And a happy one," she whispered. "And that's that."

Bumblebee didn't stir. Instead the white noise pouring out of the speakers was replaced with music.

Bumblebee might not be able to speak. But he could control the radio. And that, Hermione contemplated, was infinitely worse than a talking car could ever be. Because Bumblebee being the vintage car he was, liked oldies.

Right now the loudspeakers thundered and the car vibrated with the rhythm of the drums and the strumming of guitars. Passionate words curled around Hermione's throat and squeezed.

_"And I would do anything for love, I'd run right into hell and back …"_

Hermione balled her hands into fists.

"It. Was. Not. Love," she snarled. "It was a silly crush."

Promptly a new song started.

_"Sixteen candles make a lovely light  
But not as bright as your eyes tonight  
Blow out the candles, make your wish come true  
For I'll be wishing that you love me, too."_

"Damn right, I was sixteen, you heap of deaf junk. _It._ _Was._ _A._ _Crush._ Girls develop crushes at sixteen. I had a crush on Lockhart when I was _thirteen._ Do you think I should return to Britain and live with the dork at St. Mungo's, playing they-adore-me, they-adore-me-not with daisy petals for the rest of my days because of that? No? See! There's nothing to it. Nothing at all." Hermione exhaled noisily through her nose. "Trust me, Bums. If he's played dead for so many years, he wants to stay dead. He would NOT appreciate being found. Least of all by a bushy haired, Gryffindor know-it-all."

She stared at her fingers. They curled so tightly around the steering wheel that the knuckles stood out thin and white. Could it be? _Could_ he possibly still be alive somewhere?

"He hated me," she muttered, almost as if that were a reassurance.

The radio crackled and rustled with static noises again.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Okay, so maybe he did not hate me. He had a part to play. And I was just a kid. Fine. That doesn't change anything."

She let go off the steering wheel and rubbed the knuckles of her fist over her forehead, up and down. So hard that it almost hurt. "Maybe Harry's right after all," she whispered. "And I should be committed. It's not healthy to be so obsessed with silly little sweet sixteen crushes all of nine years later. It's unnatural."

Hermione rolled her head back as if it was possible to dislodge unwanted thoughts that way.

"I really have no reason to remember him at all."

Bumblebee audibly disagreed.

_"Summertime  
And the livin' is easy-"_

Hermione closed her eyes. _No._ Not that. She should never have told that meddlesome motorcar about that evening.

"It wasn't easy," she whispered. "Not easy at all."

Still, it had been-

Summer. The summer after her Fifth Year. After her parents had been murdered.

All that hot, horrid summer long she'd lived in London, at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

The summer of 96, when adventures were no longer exciting and magical, but scary and deadly. When Harry had started turning into a different person, into an angry young man, sullen and stubborn-and someone she didn't like very much. When Ron flushed whenever he looked at her and stuttered like an idiot when he tried to talk to her. Because he couldn't handle her grief or his hormones.

_"-Fish are jumpin'  
And the cotton is high-"_

Hormones. Heat suffused her face. That had also been the summer when she'd learnt how to masturbate satisfactorily, lying naked on the lumpy mattress in a former dressing room. Just off the main guestroom, too, where the object of her night-time fantasies sometimes slept in his faded grey nightshirt and his thick black dressing gown.

A chamber of her own had been the one small mercy that her parents' deaths had provided for her at Grimmauld Place. Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore had decided that she would need some privacy. Though probably not for thereason she enjoyed that privacy for. She smirked, reminiscing.

_"-Oh yo' daddy's rich  
An' yo' ma is good lookin'-"_

Her smirk faded into a sad smile. As dentists, her parents _had_ been rich. And even then, she'd known that being rich was overrated. She would have preferred her parents poor as dirt, but alive.

Now, nine years later, she'd added Orders of Merlin to that list overrated status symbols. Along with careers. And connections. Friends. And men.

Looks even more so. But she'd always wanted to look like her mother. Hermione sighed and shook her head, finally giving in and allowing the memories to wash over her.

Another thing that Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore had decided upon that summer was that she needed a Task To Keep Her Mind Off Things. A task that went beyond the scope of her homework (complete and immaculate a mere week into the summer hols).

So she found herself recruited as Professor Snape's new assistant.

While that scheme successfully diverted her attention from _some_ things, it was perfectly useless when it came to keeping her mind off other things, such as Professor Snape himself for example.

Namely, because assisting Snape in the narrow confines of his make-shift impromptu laboratory in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place made it rather hard to ignore him.

At thirteen, Hermione Granger had been ill-equipped to rationalise the emotional turmoil that the blonde beauty of Professor Lockhart elicited within her.

At sixteen, Hermione Granger knew exactly what was happening when butterflies soared in her stomach as soon as she looked at the black-clad, scowling Potions master. And she was determined to methodically rip away the wings of those irritating insects one by one and then crush them under the cruel heels of adulthood.

_"-So hush, little baby,  
Don't you cry-"_

Only the best laid plans of mice and Hermiones never seemed to work. In retrospect she rather thought she spotted a trend there, even then.

At first brewing with Snape had been perfectly horrible. Not that she'd done any brewing.

She'd scrubbed cauldrons.

And chopping boards.

And mortars.

And pestles.

And tables.

And sinks.

She'd brushed bottles and bowls.

She'd washed vials, ampoules and flasks.

And whatever she'd done, she'd done it wrong. According to Snape anyway.

It was, Hermione mused, nothing short of a miracle that she'd survived the first week. And that she had made it, was not due to her skills or her talents or her intelligence, but merely due to circumstance.

"That's what you call a scrubbed table?" Snape's silky voice slithered through her reminiscences. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. Now I see why you so easily dismissed the services of house-elves in your Fourth Year, Miss Granger. Clearly having the services of a Muggle cleaning lady at your beck and call has clouded your mind for the appreciation of manual labour."

Under normal circumstances that would have been the end of it.

She'd have thrown a temper tantrum.

He'd have refused to endure her a moment longer.

But that summer, temper tantrums didn't come easily to Hermione. Worse, at that point in time, her professor's soft voice—no matter what menacing things he uttered—only served to elicit the fluttering of more butterfly wings in her stomach. And she was much too busy to exhort herself deep within her mind not to chance a look at his beautiful eyes to even contemplate arguing with him.

("Legilimency, you might as well kill yourself right away. If he'd let you near a knife … Think of what Harry would think. No. Think of the noises Ron would make if he knew about the feelings you get for the greasy git of all people." _Oh._ Good. That worked. A deep, internal sigh.)

Therefore, keeping her eyes on the scrub brush, she just asked evenly: "In that case, would you be so kind and show me the proper way of scrubbing a table, Professor?"

For a moment the kitchen was deadly quiet. Then a black-clothed arm reached around her, and long, strong fingers curled around her hand and the scrub brush. With vigorous, rhythmic strokes, her professor demonstrated just how a table ought to be scrubbed in his opinion.

Later that night, alone on her lumpy mattress, Hermione experienced the first climax of her life.

Afterwards she contemplated that it was probably not a good idea to keep working with Professor Snape. But for some reason she couldn't bring herself to act upon that conclusion.

And three weeks later, he trusted her with his knives.

Cleaning them, that was. Not actually _using _them.

Until the one evening that thrice dratted summer song reminded her of, as that interfering dragster of a car knew perfectly well.

Hermione's mouth turned dry at the memory.

London in the grip of a heat-wave.

Hot to the point that she had discarded all propriety and wore a tight tank-top and shorts even in the laboratory. After an afternoon in the kitchen her clothes would cling to her body anyway. It was easier to start out with clothes that were already tight fitting.

Humid in that terrible way that made her curls frizz and writhe like Medusa's snakes. But the atmosphere in the kitchen was worse. The fumes of cauldrons and the steam of hot water for cleaning left everything—Hermione included—damp and dank. Moist. She swallowed hard. There was one embarrassing spot of moisture on her body that had nothing to do with the heat and humidity, and everything with her body's reaction to her professor's proximity. Hermione inhaled with a shudder and slicked her hair back. With almost detached amusement, she realised that the atmosphere of the day in connection with the exhaust of brewing had effectively uncurled her hair. It hang limp, lank and heavy down her back, as slick and straggly as her professor's.

There, the last stirring rod lay clean and sparkling in the cupboard. Professor Snape was polishing the last knife to be put away for the day.

They were done.

And she was done in.

Hot and bothered as she was, Hermione was supremely grateful that this was one of the rare evenings when Grimmauld Place would be empty of all occupants. Save for her-and Professor Snape, she supposed, trying to ignore the delicious tightening low in her body at that thought. She'd planned spending a quiet evening reading in the library. Now she contemplated spending a quiet evening in her room. _Not reading._

"…you planned for dinner?" Her professor's soft voice startled her out of her private musings. Hermione jumped, flushing. For a second, their eyes met.

His extraordinary black eyes burnt into her very ordinary brown ones. With a gasp, Hermione turned away. His piercing gaze made the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end and chased shivers up and down her spine. He was staring at her, as if he could see straight through her. Her heart started pounding-that was quite within the realm of possibility, too.

_Dear Lord, no. Please. He must not have seen-_

"Dinner, Miss Granger. Mrs. Weasley charged me with ensuring that you, Miss Granger, actually consume sustenance tonight. And Professor McGonagall was quite insistent that I see to it that her precious teacher's _pet_ remain…well fed."

Minutely, Hermione relaxed. He probably hadn't seen anything. He was merely annoyed because the women had nagged him into taking care of a grieving Gryffindor. She sighed. It was true, she hadn't had much of an appetite lately. But that was due as much to the heat as to other factors. She certainly didn't plan on acting out emotional upheavals in an eating disorder.

"Miss Granger. Look at me."

Reluctantly, Hermione raised her head. Snape leant against the sink, arms crossed in front of his chest, his robes obscuring his figure (and how _did_ he survive wearing a frock coat and robes in this heat?) She focused her gaze on the uppermost button of his frock coat, which was just visible between the folds of his robes.

"I am aware that you may have not much appetite," Snape added softly. "But you _must_ eat. Starving yourself is no solution. _For anything."_

Her stomach tightened at the sound of his voice. Desire, or at least foolish, teenaged attraction curled up inside her.

_Dear Merlin. He _has_ seen something! Or maybe he just knows? Her father used to have young dental nurses and teenaged patients fall in love with him every now and again. He'd always known, and sometimes he'd talked about those situations at home. At _dinner._ How he'd had to gently dissuade young girls from fabricating tooth aches to come and see him every week. —Or sometimes not so gently. She winced mentally at her Dad's threatening gesture of wielding his drill._

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. But if Snape knew something, she reasoned, he'd never be gentle about it. _Never. _He'd put her father's worst drill to shame. Of that, at least, she was sure.

She opened her eyes again. "I just—everything seems to taste like papier-mâché these days. And it's really too hot for—" She bit down on her lower lip. "Not that I mean to complain about Mrs. Weasley's cooking. Or about the lunches the Hogwarts elves send to us. She, they can cook really—"

It was quite absurd how much she missed her mother's cuisine all of a sudden. Celery stalks and pieces of carrots with low-fat dips. Crisp salads. Tofu stir fry.

"Ahh," Professor Snape smirked. "Certainly. Yes. Anyone _can_ cook. That doesn't mean that anyone _should._ And that includes Hogwarts house-elves and rotund, red-haired witches." His smirk softened into surprisingly wicked smile. "Well, if only for tonight," he purred, "I believe I may be able to _assuage_ that problem at least."

Her breath hitched. For a second Hermione entertained the bizarre suspicion that Snape might use words such as _'assuage' _on purpose. Just to see her squirm. Then the meaning of what he'd said registered with her and she looked up-just in time to realise that he'd been looking not at her face, but at a part of her body a few inches lower than that.

Their gaze met again.

This time, Hermione was much too stunned to look away.

Her cheeks were on fire. And to her surprise she could see that Professor Snape was blushing, too. Up to the roots of his slick black hair.

Her heart thudded.

Then Professor Snape cleared his throat. "I shall show you how to prepare _ratatouille,"_ he announced. _"Ratatouille_ is a rural French summer dish made out of-"

"—diced and tossed stewed vegetables; courgettes, onions, tomatoes, green and red peppers, and nowadays also aubergines," Hermione interrupted. "It's delicious! I've had it before! When my parents—" She stopped, mortified at the tears that were suddenly burning in her eyes. At that time she hadn't realised that Snape hadn't chastised her for interrupting him, but was simply listening to her. "—when my parents took me to France for the hols." She pressed her lips together. Her parents would never go on holiday with her again. Her parents would never do anything ever again.

"I have observed your cutting techniques in class," Snape went on, when it was clear that she wouldn't say anything else. "They are…almost promising. However, there is room for much improvement, and I won't have precious potions ingredients suffer the consequences of your feeble efforts. Bell peppers, onions, garlic and the like are much more suitable victims for such endeavours." He walked to the pantry and produced a large basket that appeared to contain all the ingredients necessary for the concoction of ratatouille. With swift, certain movements he laid them out on the table before Hermione. "Now, Miss Granger, you may tell me which knife you will choose for which vegetable.

"Think carefully," he encouraged her, enunciating each syllable clearly.

_"—One of these mornin's,__  
You's gonna rise up singin'  
Then you'll spread yo' wings  
An' you'll take to the sky…"_

Staring at him in awe—had that been a compliment? had he really just paid her a compliment?-Hermione completely forgot to be afraid of what he would see in her eyes. She only remembered when she grew aware of the spots of colour forming high on his cheekbones. Her stomach somersaulted. Her heart soared.

At least he _did _notice that she was not a girl anymore.

For all the good that would do.

Ruthlessly she turned her attention to the fresh produce arrayed on the table and the selection of fine knives laid out next to the food…

Hermione came back to herself out of that revelry and shook herself.

"Stop that Bums," she grumbled. "That's so long ago that it isn't even true anymore." She grimaced. "Merlin. I am talking to my car. Why am I talking to you? That can't be healthy. —Oh, right. I've lost my family. I've lost my friends. I'm so lonely I'm getting looney. Clearly, I really _do_ need to rethink my life."

Bumblebee snorted, a crackling of static noises that drowned out the rest of the song. Then the irksome jalopy decided to twist the knife a little further in that wound of painful memories.

_"Strangers in the night exchanging glances  
Wond'ring in the night—"_

Hermione was close to clapping her hands to her ears and singing _'Lalalala' _as loud and off-key as possible, just to get that song and all the connected memories out of her head.

Feeding _'Beedle the Bard'_ to that car may well have been the biggest mistake of her life. Which she should have realised the moment she'd found the first package of lemon sherbets in the glove compartment.

But Hermione hadn't been sorted into Gryffindor for nothing. Resolutely, bravely, she face the memories of a precious, painful evening nine years ago.

First Professor Snape had ascertained that she knew just which knife to use for what purpose—and not merely in the sense of how the saw-toothed blade of a tomato knife is better suited to cutting their smooth red skin and soft, juicy flesh—but in terms of potions ingredients, from harmless herbs to viscera of dangerous creatures.

With something like shocked astonishment, Hermione realised that Snape, given half a chance could be a brilliant teacher. Demanding, but patient. Strict, but fair.

After she had chosen her weapons, he had showed her how to handle each knife. How to hold them for cutting, chopping, dicing, mincing, cleaving. His fingers curled gently around hers, and his closeness, as he guided her movements at first, before he allowed her to wield the blades on her own.

Even more surprising was the fact that in between his lectures, they actually conversed.

She talked about the holidays she had spent in France. About her parents. About school, of course. A topic to which he reacted to with a sneer and a raised eyebrow, but curiously enough no scathing remarks. Even mentioning Harry and Ron elicited no more than a short thinning of already thin lips.

Hermione knew that she was positively glowing with happiness as she looked up at him about half-way through their preparations. "Listen, sir, I just wanted you to know how honoured I am to be studying under such a—"

He shushed her with a sneer. "Such a greasy git? Such a bitter old man?"

When she gaped at him, he nodded curtly. "Miss Granger, I am very much aware of the endearing epithets all of you heap upon my head on any given day. And I assure you, I could match them each and everyone of them with a _truth_ about my person that is infinitely worse than anything those lazy dunces could ever dream up. Spare me the insult of false praise. And should you be serious, you foolish girl, then I exhort you to find an object more deserving of your admiration than I—"

Hermione closed her suddenly dry mouth. For the first time, she wondered how it would feel to be called all those names. And…she could sense that he really believed that he deserved being called all that, and worse. She frowned, but didn't flinch under his scowl. Then she shook herself, straightened her shoulders and recklessly thrust out her chin. "Actually, sir, you are not at all old. Professor McGonagall, maybe. Professor Flitwick and Headmaster Dumbledore, certainly. Why, you could easily be my brother."

"What?" Professor Snape stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.

And maybe she had. It was so hot, and she felt oddly light-headed. "Well, yes. You can't be forty. And—"

"Thirty-six."

"What?"

"I am thirty-six years old," he repeated through clenched yellow teeth.

"See!" Hermione beamed and tried to ignore how bizarre their conversation was turning out. "And my—my father, he'd— he'd have turned fifty-seven this year, and my Mum was fifty-five. They had me late, you see. They would have been a little young for you to be my brother, but not too terribly young. So you see, you can't be old."

"The heat must be getting to your head," the Professor stated flatly.

Hermione could only nod. She couldn't believe that she'd just explained how her dread Potions professor was actually young enough to be her brother. Especially since she entertained not one sisterly thought where his person was concerned. Her face started burning again with an embarrassing blush.

But since he wasn't turning back to the vegetables, she found that she couldn't move either.

"By the same logic you just employed, Miss Granger, we could also come to the conclusion that I could be your father. I would have been a little young for you to be my daughter," he said and matched the tone of her voice exactly, "but not too terribly young."

"So you see," he ground out. "I can be too—I can be old, too."

"And I'm definitely bitter," he muttered.

Hermione nodded. "For good reason, I guess.-Sir, I may not know much about you. I dare say, I know almost nothing. And I'd never presume—" She faltered, realising that she was doing just that. But since he didn't interrupt her, but continued to just stare at her in a somewhat dazed fashion, she hurried on. "But one thing I do know. In many ways, we—we—those who call you those names, or speak bad about you, or any other teacher for that matter—have it easy.

"We risk very little. Safely ensconced at Hogwarts, the worst we suffer is a bad grade in an essay or a detention for tardiness. From that enjoyable position we thrive on negative criticism. How easy it is there to criticise the teachers who offer up their work and time to allow us to learn magic, and who, in the closed environment of Hogwarts, even expose their selves and lives to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, because it seems fun to make it, and to rant. But the bitter truth we must face in these times is that we are all wrong about our petty grievances. In the grand scheme of things, especially the way things are now, even an average or bad lesson is probably more meaningful than our criticism of the teacher administering it." Hermione took a deep breath. Snape's disbelieving look prompted her to go on, picking her way through a jungle of words and meanings that suddenly seemed impenetrable. She barely remembered what she had actually set out to tell him. "Really, sir. I mean it, when I say 'thank you'."

"Well," Professor Snape said at last. His frown faltered. "That is a—surprisingly mature sentiment, Miss Granger." He turned his gaze to the finely prepared ingredients on the table and cleared his throat. "I think it is time to move on to the next stage of the process of preparing this particular dish," he added softly.

_"Strangers in the night, two lonely people  
We were strangers in the night  
Up to the moment  
When we said our first hello.  
Little did we know  
Love was just a glance away,  
A warm embracing dance away and—"_

"We did NOT dance. We did NOT make love. We did NOT fall in love. It. Was. A. Silly. Little. Crush. And besides, he's dead!" Hermione shouted at the car, slaps of her palm on the steering wheel punctuating each syllable. "I won't go back. You're just a car. You can't make me. He's dead. And if he is alive, he doesn't want me. So you can just STUFF that, you moron of a motorcar."

But it was too late: she couldn't prevent herself from remembering the _rest_ of the evening.

When Snape had set her to stirring the _ratatouille_ in a regular rhythm, she thought she'd die.

His presence at her back. His arm stretched alongside hers. His hand resting on hers. His breath blowing soft on the heated skin of her neck.

And the stirring rod, circling rhythmically. Those slick sounds. The humid heat that enveloped her.

Then Snape produced a spoon. His thin, sensual lips pursed, he blew softly on a spoonful, tasted, nodded to himself. After a quick _Scourgify,_ he dipped the spoon back into the pot. His eyes on hers, he blew on the spoon once more, than held it to her lips.

"Taste," he whispered. "Take your time. Tell me what's missing."

She noticed that his pupils were so wide that she couldn't tell where their blackness faded into the softer darkness of his iris. Another gentle exhalation. She shivered.

Closing her eyes, Hermione opened her mouth.

The spoon slipped inside. Her lips glided over the warm metal. Slowly, almost like a caress, it slid out of her mouth again.

Along with the _ratatouille,_ she could taste her heartbeat in her mouth.

A stream of sour fruitiness: the tomatoes. Underneath it flowed the juicy, earthy tang of aubergines. Soft and mushy, just like her knees, damn him. But she could feel only a remnant of the perfect dices they had created out of the gleaming oblong shapes. To her surprise the courgettes had retained their shape and texture. Now, drenched in tomato and olive oil, their subtle green flavour flared, refreshing and soothing at the same time. The wicked, spicy taste of garlic tickled her tongue. The bell peppers were still tart and gave her something to chew on. Their taste was strong at the back of her mouth. A touch of bitterness. Reticence. Almost stern. Like Snape, she thought. But not quite. Not yet perfect.

Her eyes flew open. "Still a little too sweet, I think," she surprised herself by saying.

The corners of the professor's mouth curled slightly. "Excellent, Miss Granger," he said in a silky voice, before he expertly removed the pot from the hearth. "I agree. Still too fruity, and a little too sweet." He snatched a small bottle from the basket that had contained the vegetables. "It is not quite traditional, but I find that adding a dash of _aceto balsamico_ rounds out the aroma perfectly." Snape allowed a little almost viscous dark liquid to slide over the _ratatouille. _He smirked at Hermione. "And that, Miss Granger, is the secret why magic potions are more similar to Muggle cooking than to Muggle chemistry. Recipes and perfect accuracy are not everything. You also need instinct, intuition and imagination to excel in the subtle science I have the pleasure to teach."

But he was wrong. It was not the wonderful _aceto balsamico di Modena_ (aged 12 years) that made the meal perfect. Or the fresh baguette, still warm out of the oven. Or the crisp, cold Chardonnay with its hint of vanilla and lemon that complemented the earthiness of the vegetable stew and enhanced the acidity of tomatoes and vinegar.

No. What made the meal perfect for Hermione had been the man she'd shared it with.

The sour, dour, evil, greasy git of her Potions professor. The hero of her nightly naughty fantasies.

And being Hermione, she said so. (Well, not exactly _that._ Even at sixteen one glass of wine was not enough to make her drunk enough to lose it quite that badly. But she did manage to say too much and insert her foot into her mouth rather firmly.)

She smiled at Snape over her glass of Chardonnay. "I think what I wanted to say just then is … I know that I cannot possibly assess how much you risk for us, sir. But I do know that these are times in which all of us have to truly risk something. If we want to defend our world, and perhaps create a new one, a better one."

Hermione studied his face. At the very least, the alcohol made her forget to worry about what he would read in her eyes. And so she took her time to drink in his features as she sipped on her Chardonnay. Yes, he did look bitter. But not so much evil, or nasty, but stressed. Full of worry. _Tense._ And no one in her right mind would ever call him handsome with those deep frown lines and that hooked nose. But to her he suddenly seemed beautiful, especially when he almost smiled at her across the table like that

"Sir," she said earnestly. "The world is often unkind. All of us need friends." Hermione took a deep breath, and, steadied by another gulp of white wine, she went on: "I—tonight, here, I'm experiencing something new. An extraordinary lesson and meal," she smiled shakily, "from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. Sir—"

Hermione knew at once that she had gone too far, said too much. His face darkened. Still she found that she couldn't turn away from his eyes. A vague throbbing in her temples turned into full-blown headache. She couldn't understand why he looked so sad and weary all of a sudden.

"Should I be concerned about this?" he whispered softly. He averted his eyes so suddenly, that she almost gasped. "About you?" he added.

Her throat constricted, and suddenly she felt deeply ashamed. She had only wanted to offer her gratitude, and her friendship. But because of her stupid infatuation, she had only added to his burden. She was only grateful that he kept his disgust at her foolishness hidden.

How was she to save the situation now? She had no idea. In the end she did what Gryffindors do best. She was brave.

Hermione stared at Snape for a moment longer.

Then she nodded slowly.

And then she shook her head vigorously, trying to keep her eyes from overflowing with silly tears that would serve to make her embarrassment complete.

She bolted from the room.

_"Young girl, get out of my mind  
My love for you is way out of line  
Better run, girl  
You're much too young, girl—"_

Hermione came to herself with a start. For a second she stared at the radio, before the words and the song really registered with her. Then she found herself suddenly at the end of her tether.

"I've had enough of this," she hissed at her car. "It wasn't like that. We were no strangers in the night. I was never sweet, not even at sixteen. I definitely wore no perfume or make-up at that age. And he—he—just had me cooking that night because McGonagall and Molly had nagged him about it. There never was anything. And besides, I'm over it. He's dead, so he's over it, too. Over everything. Over and out. I'm not going back. There IS no going back, you _fucking,_ **fwooping** DUNG HEAP **OF SCRAP METAL!"**

Hermione jumped out of her _Déesse_ and slammed the door shut.

She never noticed how the radio shut off with a huff at her last barrage of insults and how the locks clicked decisively when she turned her back on the car, kicking crap out of the nearest garbage bin.

**oooOooo**

* * *

**A/N: **Again, everything you recognise is not mine. Namely, this chapter contains textual allusions to the movie "Ratatouille" and quotes of lyrics within the percentage of what is generally accepted as Fair Use.

If there's something you liked about this chapter, consider leaving a comment and telling me about it!


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